The Spin is used to seeing opening act Elvis Costello in that role about as often as we see those four words in that sequence — i.e., not very. Well acquainted with the marathon three-hour 30-song Costello shows of yore at The Ryman, we were wondering if he'd seem like a tiger pacing a cage (or worse, a workhorse treading a rut) in an hour-long slot in the Land Of The $14 Corona. Not to worry: after a swaggering entrance to what sounded like robot-attack music from an old anime flick, a slimmed-down, gangster-attired Costello and his ticking-bomb Imposters set about not phoning it in, starting with a zestily nasty "I Hope You're Happy Now."

As Costello sets go, it was something of a bouillon cube, compressing hits, deep-catalog nuggets and curveballs into a 14-song sprint so swiftly paced the man at stage center was scarcely finished with one song before he started counting off the next. With keyboard octopus Steve Nieve doing theremin karate, the band careened through three songs (two from Blood and Chocolate!) before setting off waves of mass recognition with the thuggish guitar line of "Watching the Detectives." A mid-set pairing of the elegant Momofuku country-soul ballad "Flutter and Wow" and the Almost Blue honky-tonk weeper "Too Far Gone" — dedicated to its author, the late Billy Sherrill, the record's not-entirely-sympathetic Music Row producer — could only stave off the damburst of must-includes for so long: "Radio Radio," an audience-sung "Alison," a closing one-two of "Pump It Up" and "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace Love and Understanding."

That said, it was fun to see Costello forced for expediency's sake to be a rock 'n' roll singer, not a vocalist, and to feel matchless Attractions/Imposters drummer Pete Thomas' gut-rumbling backbeat jackhammering off the concrete. If there's a drawback to Ascend Amphitheater, which is instantly one of the most appealing venues in town, it's the yacht-rock torpor that sheds seem to breed: The amount of energy and exhortation Costello had to expend to get three or four people out of their reserved seats was somewhat saddening. It didn't seem to affect his playful mood, though, best exemplified by sneaking a few snatches of the headliner's "Dirty Work" into his own "Clubland." Let's hope the next time we see him at the venue, someone else has the opening slot.

"His aim is true," Steely Dan co-frontman Walter Becker sardonically deadpanned in a way only Walter Becker can, complimenting Costello's set later during his own band's. Clearly Becker, his equally confident collaborator, fellow Dan man Donald Fagen, and their 12-piece ensemble of championship musicians weren't feeling much competition when they took the Ascend stage around sundown. Steely Dan isn't an act that goes on stage with something to prove, but rather having already proven their place as pop music's most revered obsessive compulsives — there was no doubt the duo and their high-caliber hired guns would have any trouble meticulously recreating the note-perfect sleazy sheen of their me-generation-defining coke-nosed yacht rock staples. But one question did linger as stage lights illuminated Becker, Fagen & Co., and it was answered as soon as the band busted into the busy, note-y calypso shimmy of an opening cover of Ray Bryant's "Cubano Chant."

You could say, in the sound department, booking Steely Dan was the ultimate test for Nashville's new amphitheater. Would the venue be able to satisfy thousands of hair-splitting Music City audiophiles who'd turn up to nitpick every slick sonic detail of smooth jams like "Peg" and "Show Biz Kids"? Judging by the airy mix crystal-clear mix that put kick drum beats in our chests, vocal harmonies up in our faces and drilled horn sections and guitar solos straight into our ears, it seems Ascend took this show more as an opportunity to prove itself, rather than as a challenge. We perked up at every chirping six-string and felt goosebumps from every tickled ivory on "Time Out of Mind," and that shit was pretty sublime. Well played, Steely Dan. And well mixed, Ascend Amphitheater. Of course, some asshole is bound to disagree with us in the comments, but what would a Steely Dan show be, in Nashville no less, without assholes who argue about sound mixes in attendance?

While The Spin has no complaints about the mix — even from an off-center perch on the lawn, listening to Fagen's drippy organ swells on "Dirty Work" felt like drowning in a sticky sea of salty caramel — we're more than willing to grouse and grumble over Ascend's outrageous concession prices. Um, $12 for a cheeseburger? That doesn't even come with fries? This was a long show that started before dinner time, and hunger pangs hit us hard by the time the band charged into "Bodhisattva." Sure, we felt bad about eating beef during the most swingin' song ever written about Buddhism by a band named after a dildo, but not as bad as we felt about spending $12 to do it. And another $12 to wash it down with light beer we'd sweat out by the time the band encored with "Kid Charlemagne"?! Fuck that smooth noise.

It was quite a price to pay for being part of a captive audience, and damn what a captive audience this was. During an (admittedly entertaining) minutes-long monologue during the breakdown of "Hey Nineteen," Becker promised the band would deliver "hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit ...." for the mostly sandals-sporting, Dockers shorts- and romper-clad crowd of gloriously awful dancers who were over the age of 19 when Can't Buy a Thrill came out.

For younger or more casual fans (like The Spin), it's easy to forget just how many monster hits the Dan has. From "Rikki Don't Lose That Number" to "Reelin' in the Years," the band executed each without a sonic blemish over the course of a 19-song set that. featuring at least two drum solos from monster sticksmith and part-time Nashvillian Keith Carlock, oozed with strident tones, lotion-slick hooks and tight, smooth grooves. The show was full of good vibes and great songs about doing very bad things; if it lacked spontaneity, that's because it was supposed to lack spontaneity. What it was supposed to be was a night of musical perfection courtesy of a couple of funny assholes who know how to hire very good people. And it was definitely that. Becker and Fagen have always infamously given many fastidious fucks about attention to detail and absolutely zero fucks about arena-rock formalities. Luckily, that's still the case.